How They Communicate
by ShadyReporter
Summary: Shelly and Stan are both more action people and less words.  So when Shelly, after a bad day at school and looking for something to hit, sees her brother come home battered, she shows her concern in the one way she knows how.  One shot cuteness with fists


Taking a quick break from my main story to do a one shot. Just wanted to see if I could write anything else in the South Park universe. Besides, there's not enough of these two. I really like when the series shows that even though they're always fighting, deep down there's still a sibling relationship here. And while I usually love to write funny stuff, I've been reading some fluffy things lately so here's my outlet.

I had a teacher once, similar to the one I refer Shelly as having in this story. Taught to us like we were kindergarteners and tested us like we were Masters graduates. And this was Physics 101 for crying out loud. No wonder the class average on tests was a 60%.

By the way, does anyone actually know how old Shelly really is? I've tried looking it up but found nothing. All I know is she's older than Stan. So uh . . . I'm gonna say she's like in 7th or 8th grade.  
>EDIT: OK Madam RedRose25 was awesome enough to point out that in the episode "Cat Orgy" Shelly says she's 12. Since Stan was 8 then, that would put Shelly at about 13 here, since Stan is probably 9 by the time this came around. So yeah, she's in about 8th grade. Figures, its in one of the few eps I haven't seen yet, lol. Thanks Madam RedRose25!<p>

And this story takes place sometime after "F'ed in the A". Exactly when, eh, doesn't matter.

* * *

><p>Shelly jumped off the bus, irritation hovering around her like a nearly visible cloud. Failing that science test had royally ticked her off; she'd studied for it, what more could the teacher ask for? Maybe if he tested them on what he he taught, or actually treated them like their age instead of a bunch of clueless preschoolers . . .<p>

Head filled with enough insults to outshine a thesaurus, Shelly stomped into the Marsh household like a storm out to inflict lightning on unsuspecting nature. Unfortunately, there wasn't anyone around she could take her wrath out on. Her father was probably still at work, mother was out who knows where, and Stan didn't get home from elementary school for another half hour. Oh well, she had until then to find some excuse to bully her little brother.

Like she _needed_ an excuse.

She threw her backpack onto the couch in the living room and raided the fridge. Hm, no milk. And a few other supplies were low. Maybe that's where her mother was; shopping. Well, hopefully she would stay gone for another hour so Shelly would be free to vent her bad day on her personal punching bag, if even for a few minutes.

Popping open a soda, she flopped on the couch next to her backpack and flipped on the TV. She had homework, but was feeling rather annoyed with school at the moment. Besides, what good was it doing her homework if her teachers made the tests so blatantly unfair anyways? What more could they do to her if she showed up the next day waving blank papers and telling them to stick it where the sun didn't shine?

The TV seemed to be indifferent to her mood however, as it refused to have anything entertaining to watch. Some news station blathered on about stuff she wasn't old enough to care about, and a few other channels were running specials on something she wasn't old enough to really understand. Somewhere there'd been an earthquake, but she wasn't exactly interested in hearing about real life stories of peoples who'd had a worse day than she. Even more annoying were the channels with programs that were too babyish for her to stand for more than a minute. She flipped through yet another Terrance and Phillip marathon. For crying out loud, didn't anyone have a good, violent movie on? At this point, she'd even take a chick-flick; maybe seeing some everyday girl win over a hunk would cheer her up.

The TV still refused to cooperate, so she forced the issue by flipping on the DVD player and sticking in the first movie she grabbed off the shelf. She sat back sipping her soda for the next little bit while Sigourney Weaver lead around a bunch of clueless idiots who kept managing to get themselves picked off one at a time by an alien.

While Shelly was fast-forwarding through another boring part of no one dying, she heard a scraping sound at the door. She glanced towards the clock; nearly four in the afternoon. Maybe it was finally Stan coming home late; she'd been getting more and more irritated with the lack of someone to hit. She'd really let him have it for being later than she was expecting.

The front door swung open and Stan came dashing in, gasping. His stupid poofball hat was slightly askew and leaking black locks of hair. He swung the door shut behind him and fumbled with the lock. Once he seemed sure the door was secured, he slammed his back against it. With a heavy sigh, he slid down the door to sit panting on the floor.

Shelly frowned. Now what had gotten into the little turd now?

She took a final gulp from her soda, crushed the can in her hand, and got on her feet. She marched towards her unsuspecting brother, crinkling the aluminum in her hand into a ball. "Hey, Turd," she growled.

Stan looked up and she blinked in surprise. He was sporting the beginning of a black eye. She took a step back and glanced over his whole appearance. On a closer inspection, his jacket was ripped and one strap of his backpack had been pulled out. Judging from the way he held one arm around his chest, he probably had bruises forming there too.

She frowned. Someone had beaten her to beating her brother? Who would dare?

Stan's eyes seemed to widen. "Augh, you've got to be kidding me!" he said, leaning against the door. "Look, whatever I did, just . . . just leave me the hell alone, OK? I've kind of had a bad day."

Shelly blinked. Stan rarely talked to her like that. Most often, he'd run like the pussy little turd he was. She folded her arms. "Oh? What happened?"

She was surprised to hear herself ask, almost as surprised as he seemed to be to hear the question. "Uh, just . . . stuff," he said hesitantly.

She knelt down in front of him, leaning forwards with arms still folded. She held eye contact for what seemed like ages. She knew her brother didn't like the idea of appearing weak, but she was going to get details out of him somehow.

He was already shifting nervously under her gaze. "Dammit Shelly, its just some kids on the way to the bus stop," he muttered, finally averting his eyes to stare somewhere off on the floor.

"To or from?" she growled through her headgear.

He frowned confused. "Huh?"

"I asked, to the bus stop, or coming back from the bus stop?"

Stan's eyes went back to the floor. "Both . . ."

Shelly's own eyes narrowed, still staring right through her brother.

"Augh fine," he said. "Look, its no big deal, its just some kids from out of town; from Orange County I think. Something about that whole danceoff and how we cheated to win and their town is disgraced and other garbage. Its no big deal, they'll get bored and move on."

Shelly drummed her fingers on her arms. "And they jumped you both on the way and back from school?"

"Yeah . . ."

"Were your pussy friends with you?"

"No, they headed off to their own houses and missed the gang. Why?"

Shelly stood up. "Come on," she said, grabbing his shoulders.

"Wha-huh? Wait, what?" Stan stammered, as she hefted him off the ground. She swung him around her back so he was sitting on her piggy-back style, her arms supporting his legs and his own arms around her neck. She kicked his backpack to the side of the entryway, swung open the door, and marched out into the street.

If they were between their house and the bus stop, and close enough to their house to avoid being seen by Stan's friends, then that meant they couldn't have lain in wait for him more than a block away. And if Stan had just gotten away from them, then they couldn't have gone very far.

Stan stammered a few lame protests at first, but fell silent. She was grateful; whining was something she hated. But more than that, she didn't want him to stop her. If he was quiet, that meant he was silently accepting her help.

She never spoke much with her brother, and he never really tried to talk to her. Most of their conversations consisted of fists and name calling. Neither were exactly on speaking terms. And that wasn't necessarily because they didn't like each other. No, Shelly and Stan didn't have the kind of relationship that needed talking. They were both more-action-and less-words sort of people anyways.

She found the kids milling around a park a few blocks from their house. They looked to be mainly older than her brother, with a few in her age group and one in his. There were about six total. While they didn't quite scream gangster, a few of them might be well on their way in that direction. Chances were, they didn't give a rats ass about the reputation their town had; but they protected their own rep with extreme ferocity. And if Stan and his little dance group had shamed their town at that stupid dance-fest, then anyone in that circle would stupidly take that shame on their own shoulders. What a bunch of posers.

One kid elbowed the oldest kid and pointed in her direction. The talking and laughing of the group died down as Shelly approached, her brother still on her back. She felt his grip around her neck tighten slightly; these kids made him nervous, despite the bravado he'd tried to put on earlier.

"Can I help ya?" the oldest kid said, smirking. He gave her a look up and down. His mistake; it just gave her another reason for what she was about to do. Not like she was looking for any more reasons, but still; sometimes justification kept her conscience at bay.

"Help me?" she snorted. "If you're the type to pick on solo kids with your gang, I doubt you've got the balls to be much a help to any girl."

There was a series of "ooooo"s around the gang. The leader's grin seemed strained on his face. "Well, maybe some kids have it coming," he said.

Shelly put Stan down on the ground and turned to him. Confirmation time. "Stan, are these them?" she asked.

Stan glanced from her to them and back. He had an expression that seemed to be torn between nervousness and excitement. He knew what was coming next, and whatever pity he felt for these punks was rapidly vanishing. He nodded. "Yup, these are them."

"Aww," one kid said. "Poor little baby can't take his lessons, so he has to get a tutor?" A few other kids snickered.

Shelly looked at him. "That sucked. You got any better insults?"

The boy blinked. Probably not the usual reaction he was used to. "Uh . . ."

Shelly rolled her eyes. "Yeah, thought so," she said. Oh well, like she'd mused earlier, she wasn't one for words anyways.

Her punch sent him flying head over heels.

Like a bunch of firemen jumping to a siren, all boys were on their feet. A few more came at her, fists brandishing. She laid them flat, a simultaneous blow to each of their mouths. Several teeth flew in the air as their bodies hit ground. She then stomped down hard on their stomachs, to make sure they _stayed_ there.

The remaining three boys came at her more hesitantly. The leader took point while the other two tried to flank her. She ignored them, instead focusing on the older boy. He scowled and pulled something out of his pocket.

"Don't think I'm gonna go easy on ya just 'cause yer a girl, bitch," he said. He flipped up the item he had in his hand; an extended pocketknife. He brandished the blade in front of him, threateningly.

Shelly snorted. "Goes to show just how pathetic you are," she said.

He snarled. "What do you-"

"Shelly!" Stan cried.

Shelly reached out and caught the necks of the other two punks who had just lunged at her from behind. They both swung pocketknives at her also, but she was too fast for them. Instead, she lifted each one off the ground with one hand, then flung them both right at the older boy. He let out a yell and they all collapsed into a heap, scrambling to avoid each others' blades.

"Unlike YOU posers, I don't need weapons!" Shelly cried, then leaped into the air.

"No, wait!" the older boy yelled as she came crashing down WWF style right onto the pile. I couple punches and kicks later, and she stood in the middle of the pile dusting her hands off. Around her six moaning figures were rolling in the dirt.

"Whoa," she heard Stan say.

Shelly reached down and pulled up the lead boy by the collar of his coat. "Listen here, you sniveling bastard," she growled, "no one, and I mean NO one, lays a hand on my brother for any reason. If I see you here again, you're leaving South Park in a body bag." She emphasized her point with another fist to his face, and knocked him out cold.

Stepping away from the carnage, she strode over to Stan. He didn't say anything as she picked him up again and started to march home. After a few moments though, he broke the silence.

"You OK?" he asked.

"Eh, those turds hardly even touched me."

She felt his grip tighten on her neck and knew he was glaring at her head the same way she had glared at him earlier at home. She sighed. "You need to grow up smarter than this, Stan."

"Yeah I know, and not get into trouble," he muttered.

"No, you Turd," she snapped. "I mean this." She waved her fist.

"Oh."

The two of them fell silent. She preferred it that way. But she couldn't help but kick herself all the way home. Violence was always her answer. People picked on her, she beat them up. People picked on her brother, she beat them up. Stan got annoying, she beat _him_ up. It was how her world worked. It was how she worked. But it was not how she wanted Stan to work. He was a smart kid; annoyingly smart sometimes, and other times more smart-mouthed than brains smart. But she could see him handling problems with more than just his fists, and it was annoying that he was capable of so much more in defense than she ever could. She could always lay him or anyone else flat, but she knew one day he'd be able to make someone wish they'd been hit instead. Or even better, be sorry they'd crossed him in the first place. And not ruefully sorry, but genuinely apologetic.

She walked the steps home automatically. Maybe that was one reason she always picked on her brother. She was trying in her own way to cope with the fact that her brother would sometime surpass her, and she'd never change.

She glanced up as their house neared. Hell with it, why was she even worrying about this? It wasn't anything she cared about. She didn't have some stupid reason to be a jerk to Stan or to anyone. She was tough and who cared what anyone else thought. She didn't need to be accepted, she didn't need permission, and she certainly didn't need forgiveness-

Her thoughts were cut off by a movement from Stan. He had leaned forwards so his arms were completely around her neck and his face buried in the back of her hair. "Thanks," he whispered.

She blinked. Somehow, he'd understood. She hadn't said anything for the last little bit and yet . . . there was that conversation again. She knew that he felt bad having to rely on her, and he knew that she felt bad that she was being a bad example. Neither of them knew what the future could bring. But in the meantime, all he cared about was that he had a big sister who looked out for him, even if it meant her taking her violent nature out on him every once and awhile. And all she cared about was that her brother was safe from idiots, who really did deserve the beating they got anyways.

Shelly had stopped at the door. She was vaguely aware that this feeling of comradeship probably wouldn't last. Who knows, when they got inside they might even start yelling at each other again. But that was how they communicated. As much as they fought and got on each others nerves, they'd always be there for one another. Because that was what siblings were for.

"You're such a Turd," she said sighing, opening the door.

"And you're a Bitch," he replied.

She smiled and walked into the house, her bad mood slowly evaporating. "You'd better believe it."

Now, where was that homework?


End file.
